


A war misplaced

by Cereal2306



Series: Catra character study one-shots (cannon) [1]
Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Catra (She-Ra)-centric, F/F, Minor Adora/Catra (She-Ra)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:48:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25026454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cereal2306/pseuds/Cereal2306
Summary: Your own blood glistens on the hand that lashes out, crimson staining your knuckles as metal plating meets honed claws. There is a rupturing of material and wiring, of machinery separating from body, as the torso of the clone that restrains you is warped and the complex gadgetry beneath is exposed and mutilated.A wild blow landing true.You know your luck will not allow another successful strike.“Prime casts out all shadows.”//Or: A brief study of Catra's thoughts when being chipped on Horde Prime's ship
Relationships: Adora/Catra (She-Ra)
Series: Catra character study one-shots (cannon) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1812283
Comments: 6
Kudos: 42





	A war misplaced

**Author's Note:**

> tw for slight suicide references, not explicit at all but just in case (Catra's in a pretty dark place mentally so it felt unavoidable)

Your own blood glistens on the hand that lashes out, crimson staining your knuckles as metal plating meets honed claws. There is a rupturing of material and wiring, of machinery separating from body, as the torso of the clone that restrains you is warped and the complex gadgetry beneath is exposed and mutilated.

A wild blow landing true.

You know your luck will not allow another successful strike.

_“Prime casts out all shadows.”_

Your other arm is pressed against your back, pinned and gripped tight by a being birthed from mechanics and madness, one camouflaged face amongst a legion of green eyes and greyscale metal and shining polish. You no longer feel pain in the arm that twists behind you, too consumed by adrenaline and urgency and _relief_ , a hilarious and overwhelming _relief_ \- because the ship has turned around, because the princess will live, because that moronic, blonde, sword wielding, _infuriating_ fool of a hero is safe. You know your death will be nothing compared to what theirs would have been.

You would laugh if there was less blood in your mouth.

The ranks of clones that line the walls are the same that those dragging you belong to, and perhaps it is sad that even the brainwashed robots carrying you to your death – for if the eerie liquid truly holds the power to wipe your mind, then it might as well be your demise – hold more trust in one another than you have in your allies in years.

Perhaps it is ironic that you gave your life to an army you never had any faith in.

Perhaps that is also sad.

Adora would probably think so.

_“Prime casts out all shadows.”_

The arm you had swung wildly is now clutched in a grip sterner than a being with flesh and marrow could ever achieve, and attempting to fight it would be futile, you reason. You let your shoulders relax as much as is possible with the limb pressed to your spine and allow your feet to slide along the floor beneath you. There is something pleasant that accompanies relaxing into the arms of a cruel fate, and finding that the prospect of death lacks the terror it had once instilled is not something that worries you.

It will not be an honourable hero’s death; a tale of legend whispered to the youth; nor will it be prolonged and gory; the one that is deserved, but you have never been so _tired_. You feel that even without the unsettling liquid that will soon immerse you, you would not have survived the exhaustion that had long plagued you for more than another few days.

The pool is closer now, a few steps and a nudge and you cease to exist within your own skull, eliminated by a solution of chemicals of which you will not be the first victim. It radiates light, a neon juxtaposed to the dark purpose of the fluid, and for a moment you wish that the lighting was a tad softer, and the chants quieter, and maybe the hands gripping you belonged to a more heroic, less metallic being who looked at you with an affection you had not witnessed since a forest and a sword and a war of two souls misplaced within a war of territory.

But then the moment passes, and you are grateful for death, no matter how unfamiliar your surroundings.

_“Prime casts out all shadows.”_

You are on the ledge now, seconds away from the plunge, and you breath in the fumes that radiate from the toxicity gurgling beneath you, well aware that these may be the last inhales this consciousness will ever remember.

Your arms are released, and briefly you are met with an instinct to twist and make a final strike with the claws that have inflicted so much hurt, to leave this world fighting.

_“Prime casts out all shadows.”_

Twin sets of wounds raking down a traitor’s back, or maybe you are the traitor, and there are scratches gracing the bridge of her nose, and suddenly the impulse to lash out is gone, and you are so ready for death that you feel your mouth open in a silent plea, letting blood on your chin that you have no compulsion to wipe.

You lived painted with crimson, and a well-mannered death does not seem a fitting end for such bloodlust.

_“Prime casts out all shadows.”_

The blood staining your fur will not have time to dry.

The clones behind you prepare to push you, you can sense their hands linger in the charged air around you, but you find you do not need their assistance.

_“Prime casts out all shadows.”_

You did your one good thing, right? You did the good thing?

Now you let yourself fall.

**Author's Note:**

> hey thanks for reading :))
> 
> i'm trying to get back into fanfiction so i've got a few short pieces similar to this lined up and what could be the first chapter of a longer fic almost ready
> 
> comments and kudos are appreciated :)))


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